A Load Of Help
by silverwolf04
Summary: Lestrade reflects on Sherlock Holmes, past and present. Friendship Sherlock and Lestrade. Mentioned slash John/Sherlock


**A/N**- Contains mentions of drugs. But nothing explicit. Neither is the the slash. Title inspired by **ScopesMonkey.**

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><p>Geoff Lestrade was not a jealous man by nature. He found it was one of the most unpleasant emotions and was the cause for too many crimes. He'd lost count of how many husbands and wives he had to arrest of the years due to jealousy and envy. It was all so stupid. It was especially bad in the police force. DI's would get jealous if their colleaguesrivals got more interesting high profile cases. Or if their case was taken away to be solved by more competent officers. Lestrade hated it that policemen were jealous of him.

Having important cases was not fun. The demand from on high to get them solved was never fun. Nor were the bodies. Or the traumatised surviving victims. Or the deranged serial killers, especially the ones with God-complexes, they were always a pain in the butt.

Another pain in the butt was the worlds only consulting detective. Sherlock-bloody-know-it-all-insufferable-git-Holmes. He was the most exasperating man in the world barring none (well maybe the older Holmes). Lestrade particularly hated it when people got jealous of Sherlock only helping out on his cases. In some ways Lestrade had never wanted or asked for his help.

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><p>They'd met about 2005. Lestrade had just made Detective Inspector. He was elated. He'd finally gotten past his rather messy divorce, managed to unpack his belongings after six months in his new flat, and now a promotion. Life was good. Then he'd gotten the Rippen case.<p>

Eight bodies, no connections, no suspects, no leads. All the victims were of various age, sex, colour, background, occupation. There were no leads. None. And Lestrade was looking down the long tunnel of failure and depression. Lestrade had been silently chucklingly to himself at the bar when the genius had first approached him. If only his ex could see him now. She'd always said he never amount to anything.

"What's funny?" Lestrade looked up at the tall, thin, pale young man standing next to him. He was looking down at the detective with unreserved curiosity. Lestrade blinked as the man nearly shifted out of focus.

"Life. The Universe. Everything." Lestrade waved his hand around in a dramatic inclusive gesture, before realising there was a half finished cigarette clutched between his fingers. He brought it to his lips to take a much needed drag, enjoying the deep breath of nicotine tainted air that accompanied it. The stranger frowned, shaking his head at the older man and sat in the empty bar stool next to him.

"I thought it was your inability to solve your current case."

"That too," Lestrade nodded, raising his glass, pausing before actually drinking any of the whiskey . "Wait, what?"

There had been press coverage on the case obviously, and Lestrade's name had been mentioned, along with a few of his team but there were no pictures apart from the victims. How the hell did this guy know about him and the case? He certainly wasn't on the force. Work with policemen enough and you start to get a sixth sense for who was on your side (mostly) or not. Even out of uniform. Besides, this guy was fairly conspicuous. Over six foot, all skin and bone, white as a sheet. The only colour was his unruly mop of dark curls and deep purple shadows around his eyes. This kind of guy was hard to miss. So how the hell did he know about this bloody case?

"The serial killer you're currently trying, and failing, to catch. Although falling off the wagon is one of the most original methods I've ever seen. Not sure how its meant to help though. Especially since the murderer doesn't drink. In fact he killed all the people you currently have in the morgue because they're alcoholics or recovering. Well, failing to recover in all but victim number six's case. He slipped up there but no one's perfect. Not even tea totters. Ah, finally. Stella please. Lestrade?"

Lestrade was very confused. And drunk. Bad combination. And now both the stranger and a barmaid were looking at him expectantly. Oh, that last part was a question.

"Um, Strongbow?" Why did that come out as a question? The pale, far too knowledgeable, stranger nodded.

"Stella and Strongbow." He handed over a tenner telling the woman to keep the change, then turned back to Lestrade. The detective was wondering what the hell had just happened. Then a very scary thought occurred to the inebriated policeman, which caused him to inch away from the stranger. The young man smiled at the movement. Sort of. It was more of a baring of teeth that did nothing to comfort Lestrade, which wasn't helped by the stranger reaching inside his coat. What was remaining of Lestrade's coherency was lost. But before he could do anything but stare at the stranger in fear, the man drew his hand back, a packet of B&H now clasped in his fist.

"By the way," he took a cigarette out of the packet along with a lighter and promptly brought it to his lips before curving his hand to protect the flame that lit the end. "I'm not the murderer." He took a grateful drag before handing the packet and lighter to Lestrade.

The Detective didn't normally chain smoke, but the evening was turning out to be far from normal.

"Okay," he said carefully, "Say I believe any of what you just said, mind backing it up." This man was a complete stranger, he was odd, knew far to much and Lestrade got a definite danger vibe off of him. But he was drunk and desperate and a small part of him hoping this guy could provide a small miracle.

"Victim number six was his mistake. His slip up. He's been targeting those who've given up his AA meetings. They fall of the wagon, back into the bottle and hide all evidence of their failure. Hence why the connection never came up. Oh, you noticed with three and seven, but two does not a pattern make. When he broke in and smothered or strangled them, depending on unconscious or conscious respectively, they never put up a fight. Some would have been sleeping off the alcohol so not as much would be in their system. Only five and seven had enough to be mentioned in the autopsy report. Six, however, wasn't drunk. She may have left the meetings but she hadn't started drinking again. She put up a fight. There was a struggle. He cleaned up pretty well but they knocked one of the shelves down during the struggle. He managed to put it back up but he put the books back in the wrong order. She was fastidious about organisation. Obvious from all her other shelves and paperwork. So why would he expect her to be an easy kill? Because she should have been defenceless through drink. Add it all together and what have you got?"

Lestrade was boggled. What the hell had all that been? Since when did AA members go around killing each other? How did he know all this?

"How did you access to the crime scenes ?" The stranger shook his head with exasperation, before taking Lestrade's Strongbow.

"I'm going to need this more than you," he took and long gulp and reaching for the glass of water the woman next to him had abandoned to make-out with her boyfriend. "And you should have this." Lestrade frowned in protest before he could vocalise his displeasure the stranger cut him off.

"From the top..."

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><p>Five and half years later and Lestrade was no closer to understanding Sherlock Holmes. They'd caught the AA killer, of course, Alistair Rippen. Lestrade still looked in on the twisted creep now and then. Nostalgia.<p>

Sherlock had become a permanent fixture on his cases ever since. Well, all the interesting ones. Lestrade had come to trust the genius (mostly), even like him (a little), but he was never jealous of him. Lestrade saw what Sherlock had to sacrifice and what he had to put up with to have his level of intelligence. He was hated, mocked and envied by those he worked with. Sherlock had no one to care for him so he cared for no one. He did drugs, drank too much and smoked like a chimney. He lived alone in squalor. He was owed by many but liked by none. Not even his own brother.

Lestrade had met Mycroft for the first time when he'd gone to visit Sherlock after one of his overdoses. The fight had been... well, Lestrade didn't think clash of the titans really did it justice. They didn't shout till the end. There were insults, blackmailing, threats, jibes as well as pleads, promises and offers.

He knew this was not going to work. But it seemed that the brothers needed to do this. After Mycroft left Lestrade pulled some strings to get Sherlock released from hospital. The young man wouldn't stay anyway. Better have him discharged under his care rather than let him run back to his hovel and cocaine.

Sherlock detoxed on Lestrade's sofa for about five days before withdrawal hit. This is where Mycroft failed. Sherlock would get bored and welcome the distraction of his favourite drug. Lestrade, however, could do so much more. In the end it was almost easy. Sherlock defined the saying mind over matter. Lestrade brought home as many cold cases as he could get away with. Sherlock would practically devour them his mind totally absorbed. Absorbed enough to ignore his bodies cries for drugs and toxins. He even started drinking less.

Of course there were the bad days when Lestrade held the young man as he shook though the night, his body craving cocaine but to weak to do anything but shake in the older man's arms. He accepted more than a few derogatory comments about his character and parentage when he refused to let Sherlock have any drugs, or let him out to get him more.

No one at work knew and it was none of their business. Sherlock had once pulled him back from the brink of self destruction. The least he could do was repay the favour.

It took a month to get Sherlock back on his feet. Clean and sober he became even better at observing, his deductions became more accurate and his train of thought faster than ever. At one crime scene Lestrade idly wondered at the monster he'd created. Never the less, he smiled.

In the end Sherlock moved out again. Lestrade's sofa was far too small for the six foot genius. He knew that the genius was sorted though. He'd never go back to the drugs as long as he had the cases.

Months later he heard about Sherlock moving into yet another flat. He had an annoying habit of blowing up all his last residences.

"You need a bloody keeper." He'd said when Sherlock had turned up to stay on his sofa for one night before moving in the next day. Sherlock scowled dumping his things on the familiar sofa before going over to the fridge and grabbing a beer. Lestrade frowned but Sherlock merely tapped his temple before taking a large gulp of the cool drink. It was a gesture he'd developed for his favourite saying during detox; mind over matter.

"Like a flatmate?" Sherlock asked looking at Lestrade questioningly. The detective held up his hands and backed away.

"Not me. We've had this conversation." Lestrade could not put up with Sherlock both at home and at work. He reached for his phone to order Indian.

"So tell me about these suicides..."

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><p>Lestrade was more than a little shocked when Sherlock took his advice on the flatmate front. He'd laughed when Sherlock had informed him that he'd told the doctor he needed help with the rent. He knew Sherlock had a substantial trust fund and contrary to popular belief, Lestrade did pay the consultant.<p>

He'd gone to see Sherlock's new keeper at the earliest opportunity. John Watson looked ordinary. Very ordinary. He was fairly quiet, respectful and looked a little small next to the detective. But he was special. Lestrade could see it straight away.

Firstly, Sherlock brought him to the crime scene. That was unprecedented. Crime scenes were sacred to Sherlock. He allowed Lestrade near them and no one else without a lot of complaining.

Secondly, the detective asked the doctor questions. And didn't sneer at the answers. In return Watson seemed a little in awe of Sherlock. It wasn't blind devotion. But it was respect and admiration. Something that had grown in Lestrade but John Watson seemed to do it naturally and sincerely. Like he was made to do it. And Sherlock loved it.

Lestrade organised the fake drugs bust to see the new flat and to see how the boys were getting on. Very well it seemed. Although Watson was obviously a little oblivious to Sherlock's previous hobby. Lestrade was a slightly worried he might have blown Sherlock's chance with the new flatmate, but the doctor seemed to absorb the new information fine.

He was also able to kill for his new flatmate it. And Sherlock was able to admit to being wrong for John. It was startling to Lestrade. In five years, Sherlock had never admitted to being wrong. But he was able to do it for John Watson. They must have been shagging.

However several emails had informed Lestrade in no uncertain terms that the doctor and the detective were not shagging. Never had and never would, were John precise words. Lestrade had made sure to remind John of these words approximately twenty-four hours after finding them kissing each other behind a police car, seven months after the original drugs bust.

Drug bust had become a tradition now and all three of them looked forward to them. One evening Lestrade had come alone to inform Sherlock they had caught the killer. He found the oddly domestic scene of John sitting on the sofa reading a book whilst stroking his fingers through Sherlock's curls as the detective updated his site.

In that moment Geoff Lestrade had several revelations. He would never have to hold Sherlock through another detox, because he wouldn't just stay clean for the cases, he would stay clean for something much more important, John. Because Sherlock loved John and visa versa.

He never asked for Sherlock's help or presence in his life but Lestrade was glad to have it. So now he understood jealousy. Because this is the life he wanted and understood why others would too.

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><p>Disclaimer- These characters are not mine. They belong to ACD, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and the BBC. Just borrowing the characters for a while.<p>

Please read and review.


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